Day 712, June 14, 2022

Don’t Go In the Water

The deer break the surface of the tall grass 
like seals on the Atlantic sea shore. 
Little playful wiggles of the head, 
how good it must feel 
to be embraced in the dewey morning grass. 

A green heron alights on a spindly tree 
as if blown there 
and together they jostle for space, 
a lookout on the crow’s nest, 
an acrobat on a wire. 

And a moment still, 
a great black bear swims in languid strides 
across 
the street, 
stops in the front yard and looks at me. 
Its brown snout. 
Those dark uncurious eyes. 
A dog is barking and a man yells out a warning 
in a Boston Irish accent. 
Its arms make me think of elephants, 
and I can imagine touching the hair, 
a matted stringiness 
like someone who has been sleeping out in the wild 
for many days. 
I think my hands would smell 
after I touched him. 
Linger, 
all through the day, 
ever faintly, 
more than memory. 



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